


A Bargain Banquet for One

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bear Jerky, Fast Food, Gen, Road Trips, Suffering, in which hannibal tries to convince people never to eat fast food again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter finds himself on the run, the police on his heels and Will Graham not returning his calls as he flees across the states by car. Unfortunately, there's little in the way of good eating along the Interstate roadways. The culinary delights of the greasy spoon, oh how they call.<br/>(In two parts, prompted by a friend and written earlier this year. Sweet, Heisenberg-generated crack.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bargain Banquet for One

“Bear,” the words sit heavy on Hannibal’s tongue, like merlot left open to the air too long, “ _jerky_.”

Grease spots adorn the apron of the server who nods enthusiastically at the proposition, leaning a scrawny elbow on the counter. The roadside diner is tiny, seating maybe fifty people (although barely five booths have occupants), and clean as a tractor tire - but Hannibal finds himself forced off the Interstate at six in the evening, reluctantly pulling into the parking lot in search of food. A hunger gnaws at the doctor, but in his flight from Baltimore he has yet to find time to indulge in his favorite delicacy. Unfortunately, this rest stop looks unlikely to yield such a dish either.

The server thrusts a laminated menu out for Hannibal’s perusal, “one of our hot specials, you know. All our meat is locally sourced,” he looks unduly proud at being able to pronounce the latter two words. “You can try an offcut if you like, we’ve got some gris-”

“Ah, no. Thank you,” Hannibal does his best not to allow his expression to rankle. “Forgive me, I’ll pass this time.” He tries a benevolent smile but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The menu sticks a little to his fingers as he turns it over - for once, his sense of smell fails him, recoiling slightly at the onslaught of various stains on the plastic - and he peruses the faded lettering, feigning interest in foreign words he doesn’t understand. Funnel cake. Twinkie kebab. Fried Coca Cola on a stick.

The doctor selects a burger. Hollering back to the kitchen for a patty to be prepped, the server eagerly sets about taking his preferred contents. Hannibal declines the pickle. He also declines the offer of coffee, opting instead for a simple tea - there are no floaters in the mug of hot water he is presented with, fresh tea bag flopped haphazardly at the bottom of the cup. Seating himself by the window (careful to avoid the gum on one plastic ‘chair’, and the strange substance clinging to another), he awaits his order’s arrival. Outside, the sun is setting over an orange sky, as lurid and poisonous a color as the plastic cheese no doubt being laid upon his burger this minute.

Hannibal wonders after Will. He wonders after the agent’s home made rabbit pie, with crisp pastry and steaming gravy. He wonders after the soup Will cooks from root vegetables and pork fat, the warmth curling through his fingers after a frosty walk. He wonders after the fresh coffee Will makes in the morning, just as the sun crawls over the horizon, the way it fogs up his glasses and the scrunch in his brow as he takes them off to wipe.

A spider drops of the window into Hannibal’s tea, and he wonders no more.

“Order up!”, a plate drops into view, the slightly blackened ends of the fries spilling out onto the table top. They will taste like ash to the tongue, Hannibal reasons, but he also gets the distinct impression that ash will be the taste of his entire dish. (Perhaps he should have invested in a portable stove. Perhaps he should have invested in Will and friends a little more positively.) “Oh! You’ve got a friend, I’ll get you a fresh cup,” the server snaps up his mug, grinning a little too enthusiastically at the bug making pitiful circles in the dark water. “I’ll be right back.”

“Thank you,” Hannibal mumbles to no one in particular, silently admonishing himself for his crudeness of tone. It goes unnoticed all the same, and his attention returns to the sad burger before him, sagging slightly on the diner plate. Five customers remain around him. None look any more appetizing than the meal he already has. (Hannibal has already considered putting the server out of his misery, but he doubts the poor creature would taste any better than the pale cheese dripping out the bun.) His fingers settle around the burger, knocking askew a few rogue sesame seeds.

The burger rises to mouth level and Hannibal makes a point of closing his eyes. It tastes of grease and, most importantly, disappointment. 

-x-

 _Abandon all hope_ , the yellow arches thrum with foreboding as the autumn clouds broil overhead, ye who enter here. Dr. Lecter swallows, the grimy film of machine-generated coffee still clinging to the back of his teeth, and nudges his vehicle into the drive through.

The line is slow, a dust cloud rolling off the highway and down to embrace the cars bunched up against the McDonald’s. October’s cold fingers worm their way past even Hannibal’s comfiest leather driving gloved (Italian, hand stitched), and he shivers a little. He is thinning, if one were to look close enough past the rumpled shirts - suffering only the occasional motel ironing - and thick jackets. An Interstate lifestyle is not treating the doctor well. Deep fried potato slivers and the occasional sad patty is hardly his usual diet - neither as nutritious nor as meaty.

He remembers the sinews of Will Graham’s legs, pressed through skin and cotton pyjama pants as the agent would pace with his breakfast. He remembers the tender quality to the man’s shoulder through his work shirt, damp from a case out in the freezing Virginia rains. He hungers. The SUV in front of him, resplendent with customized license plate and humorless If It Ain’t Hoboken, Don’t Fix It bumper sticker, shuffles forward.

Leaning out of the first window is a greasy youth - the Interstate’s eateries are packed to the brim with them, it seems - who digs an elbow into the window sill and looks at him with intent. Hannibal blinks once, coolly, unafraid to break eye contact with a creature that would naturally be prey. The youth’s stare does not abate, one scraggly eyebrow raising almost aggressively. Challenging.

It is only then that Hannibal remembers he’s in a drive through, and is supposed to give his order right now.

“Apologies!”, he smiles with teeth, but no warmth. “I forget myself.”

“Whatever,” the reply stings of an misplaced Ohio accent, far from home. The breath stings of mint toothpaste, but probably last used about three days ago. Hannibal‘s stomach curdles.

“I’ll have, ah…medium fries,” the tip of his tongue skates over his incisors, the coffee film still present. It is ash inside him, and Hannibal resists the urge to spit it out, remembering his manners. “Are you doing hash browns right now?”, a spark of hope - but Hannibal suspects he is too late. He thinks of Will’s hash browns. Golden, like the sun rising over Baltimore on a summer morning. Toasty warm, like his hands currently are not.

“Nah, breakfast finishes at eleven thirty,” one of the youth’s eyes quiver, a jelly filed socket, “in the AM. Sorry.” The remorse is barely tangible, but Hannibal forces himself to ignore it.

“Not to worry, ahhh. Hm. A medium fries and a Filet-o-Fish sandwich, I suppose. No cheese, please,” resolve is summoned and he steels himself for the reply.

“No cheese? Alright, got it, any drinks? We have Tango, 7Up–”

“No, thank you, I’ll,” be daring, and avoid any more drinks fiasco, “have a McFlurry, if you please. Just a plain chocolate one, please.” The youth zips it, fortunately, but makes notes before motioning him forward to the next window to collect. Hannibal prays that his fries are at least hot, if nothing else. And perhaps the ice cream will be cold. It has been a long time since the good doctor has had a little ice cream. He allows himself an inward smile as the car rolls forward to the food window - perhaps he can be a little hopeful.

But not for long. 

Hannibal sits in the McDonalds parking lot in silence, chewing softly. Cold potato tickles over his lips, the faint taste of cream spoiling in the back of his throat, and he retrieves a napkin to dab it away. A platoon of police cars speed past on the highway, and a small shred of the doctor wishes they were here for him.

**Author's Note:**

> i laughed so hard writing this, hannibal deserves every second ho ho ho


End file.
